


A Face to Call Home

by donotspeaktomeofdragonfire



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Disability, Drugs, Florists, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prosthesis, Smoking, Violence, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 03:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6221605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donotspeaktomeofdragonfire/pseuds/donotspeaktomeofdragonfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xephos' life as a florist and small business owner is fairly simple and routine, a great comfort to him after his years in the military. But when an old friend from high school shows up on his doorstep, Xephos takes it upon himself to nurse the man back to health, even at great cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Face to Call Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [popcornflavoredtea](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=popcornflavoredtea).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please watch the tags!! Drug abuse/addiction, violence, vomit, etc. And in this chapter, someone does call Xephos a "cripple," which is considered by many to be an offensive term/slur. Just a heads-up!

    The minute Xephos hit the hardwood floor that morning, a searing pain jolted up his legs. This was normal, somehow, but odd, because he hadn’t actually  _ had _ a full two legs in about three years. As Xephos peeled open his eyes, brushing away the crust of sleep, he focused on a purple heart-shaped medal hanging by his door and sighed. Grabbing onto his nightstand, he balanced expertly, bracing himself with his single foot as he reached over to grab the bright blue prosthetic leaning against his nightstand. With quite a bit of shifting and squirming, he fitted it to the stump of leftover leg that hung from his right hip. Xephos made sure it was properly in his place before lifting himself up off the bed and feeling the familiar sensation of the prosthetic adjusting to his weight. After three years, he and the leg had pretty much sorted out their differences, and he moved almost as easily as he had before it. 

    Stretching and cracking his back, Xephos went slowly about his morning, dressing (much easier now than it used to be) and getting himself a bit of breakfast (toast and eggs, as usual) before he headed downstairs. As soon as he unlocked the door to the bottom floor, a whiff of fresh air and greenery greeted his nostrils. It was a lovely “good morning” from the rows and rows of plants in his little shop -- shelves overflowing with bright colours, baskets swinging from the ceiling, luscious ferns displayed proudly in the windows. The little shop below his apartment had become more home to him than the apartment itself.

    “Good morning to you too,” he whispered quietly, then chuckled to himself. Having lived alone for so long was turning him into a crazy old man, and talking to his plants was just the first sign. He moved among them in a routine that had become almost a ritual for him, checking the leaves, buds, and blossoms of his plants. Outside the large picture windows in front he could see into the street, already busy with cars and pedestrians though it was barely light out. Such was life in the city. He’d kind of always had a dream to retire to the country, maybe start some sort of bee farm and eat freshly-grown apples. The dream always reminded him of Sherlock Holmes’ ultimate fate. But unlike Sherlock Holmes, this tall, lanky brunet didn’t have a Watson to tail his every move. Xephos smiled at the thought, the sides of his mouth creasing along well-used lines.

    Eight o’clock arrived with little excitement, and the business day passed as usual. A few of the usual customers stayed to chat with him, and one, a tiny young lady in a fashionable red dress, brought him a bit of gossip about a new local resident, another veteran. He hadn’t quite caught who -- “Bebob,” or some odd nickname like that. She’d described, in quite greater detail than Xephos wanted, how the man had survived through an IED, and now had full limb prosthetics, skull plates, the works. She had only noticed about three-quarters of the way through this discussion that Xephos had stopped talking entirely, flushing a little pale, his fingers grasping the edge of the counter. Awkwardly, she excused herself and bought a large petunia plant on her way out.

    The sun cast changing shadows through the large front windows as the day went by. Xephos closed for lunch -- they’d all understand, as he was himself employee, manager, owner, and financier, with no other to help hold down the fort.

    The poor florist’s day took a violent turn around five in the afternoon, about an hour before he usually closed up. As the shadows drifted across the road, cast by the endless rows of buildings, Xephos had begun to sort through his end-of-day earnings behind the front desk, humming as he performed the menial task. He glanced up, out through the picture windows, and caught sight of a man walking past his windows in a hunched, stilted manner. It wasn’t too odd that his face was obscured by a black hoodie, as there was a chill in the air that day, but Xephos still watched him with a careful eye. He hated to stereotype, as he’d run into some nasty stereotypes himself, but the way this guy was walking didn’t seem right to him. While Xeph was still watching, the man suddenly stopped and turned around, then started backing up. He spun around again, running from some unseen opponent, but tripped on his own feet and was sent crashing to the sidewalk. The man in the dark jacket tried frantically to get his arms and legs under him again, but a moment later, three men came tearing up the sidewalk after him. One took a running jump and landed directly on the poor man, slamming into him and digging his knee into the poor man’s back. The other two came up and flanked him. They shouted things at the other guy on the ground that Xephos could only just barely hear. 

    Xephos had never been one to let himself be a bystander. He found that he didn’t actually care at this point who the good guys or bad guys were in this particular fight, but the three men had started kicking at the man’s ribs, and he wasn’t fighting back. An asshole move, indeed. And besides, no matter what was happening or why, it wasn’t going to happen outside _ his  _ store.

    Xephos bolted up out of his seat behind the cash register, grabbed his wooden cane, and stormed across the tiny store, shoving open the glass door to the outside.. The small tinkle of the gold bell above it was a stark contrast to Xephos’ next words to the group. He stood in front of them on the step, leaning on his cane. This late in the day, his legs usually started hurting, so he kept the elegant curved walking stick behind his desk. It also came in handy for situations like this.

    “Get the fuck off my sidewalk,” he shouted, in his aggressive British accent, frowning at them. “I don’t care who you are or what you’re doing, but I’m not having it.” The three boys were glaring at him now, but the man on the ground wasn’t moving. “I mean it! All of you, leave.”

    One of the boys laughed heartily at him. Xephos decided that the kid shouldn’t be the one laughing. He was unfortunately short and rather chubby, with a brown jacket pulled up over his head. It appeared that the hood had been drawn on in sharpie, something with huge cheeks, whiskers, and… tusks? 

    “Or what?” the boy challenged.

    “Yeah, mate, what do you think you’re doing?” The tallest, taller than even Xephos himself (and far thinner), reached casually into his pocket and slid out a pack of cigarettes and a neon green lighter. He slid one cig between his teeth and lit it, giving Xephos a shit-eating grin.   
    “Who do you think you are?” The man with a knee in the other’s back was the only one not smiling. He was stocky, with a full dark beard and shaggy hair, likely the oldest of the three.

    Shorty aimed another kick and booted the man on the ground straight in the groin. The long, low groan he made informed Xephos that at least he wasn’t dead… yet.

    “I said,  _ or what _ , ya prick? Ya  _ cripple _ ?” Shorty laughed again. “You gonna beat us up with your cane?” The others made endlessly annoying “ooo”-ing noises, and Xeph could feel a headache creeping up the back of his neck.

    “You know what? Yes. Yes I fucking am.”

    They were still laughing when Xephos slammed the side of his cane into Lanky. It knocked the wind out of him, sending him stumbling backwards and swearing profusely. Shorty jogged over to his side.

    “God, Smiff, you okay?” he frowned, glaring up at Xeph.

    “Yeah, I’m fuckin’ fine, Trott, you softie,” Lanky, who was apparently called Smiff, growled. “Fuckin’ get the old man!”

    Xephos readied his cane again. “I’m not a  _ fucking old man _ , I’m thirty-fucking-two years old, asshole _. _ Besides, respect your elders.” 

    Shorty -- Trott -- lunged at him. It was obvious none of them had any real combat experience, even training. Xephos only had to bring his cane up to his chest and brace his stance, and the man ran right into it, unfortunately slamming his neck right into the solid wood. 

    The poor man staggered back, clutching at his throat, which had turned a quite impressive mess of red and purple. 

    “Jesus Christ,” he rasped.

    The stocky older man hoisted himself up off the poor man on the ground with a heave-ho and sighed harshly. “Mates, I don’t think this one’s worth it, kay?”

    The edges of Smiff’s lips curled into a deep snarl. “You know what? Fine. Fucking fine. C’mon, boys, let’s get out of here. You’re fuckin’ warned, though, old man.” He waved a finger threateningly at Xephos, who scoffed and rolled his eyes. They were just a bunch of kids, he didn’t have to put up with this.

    Even before they had rounded the corner to the next block, Xephos was on the ground, crouching next to the poor broken fellow. “Who are you? Are you okay?” 

    The only response he got was a pained moan, and a throaty cough that came with a thick gurgle. Probably meant there was blood in the man’s mouth. Xeph grabbed his waist and, rather than flipping him onto his back, pulled him up into a position so that he was on his hands and knees. The man coughed, spitting up blood onto the sidewalk, and Xephos glanced up to see people moving to the other side of the street rather than cross in front of whatever’s happening right now. Again, the man gurgled and spit up blood. Xephos felt the man’s stomach heaving under his hands, once, twice, then a gush of acid and stuff that he didn’t even want to think about poured out of the man’s mouth onto the sidewalk. Having been in the military, Xeph didn’t exactly have a weak stomach, but it was still not a pleasant sight to see.

    “All right, come on, let’s get you up,” he encouraged softly, pulling the man back into a sitting position. He looked dazed. Xephos hadn’t gotten a good look at his face before, and it was still hard to make out major features through the bloody nose and mouth. He could tell that the man had short blond hair, and was unusually thin, but the most noticeable feature was the man’s bright green eyes staring back at him, from deep within dark circles.

    The man croaked something Xephos couldn’t make out, then coughed and spat blood into Xeph’s face. Xeph flinched back and wiped it off immediately, being extremely careful that it didn’t touch his mouth. This man could have had any number of dangerous diseases. 

    “Can you tell me your name?” Xephos repeated. The man spat again, this time thankfully onto the sidewalk,  and croaked out:

    “William Strife.”

    Xephos would have fallen over if he hadn’t been bracing himself on the ground. William Strife was an all-too-familiar name, a name he’d only expected to hear again on some advert or billboard somewhere, not from out of the mouth of this broken, bloody, too-thin man. He wanted to call the man a liar. He wanted to shout and shove him away. But those green eyes told Xeph’s heart something that his mind wanted to deny. This was, absolutely, without a doubt,  _ the _ William Strife.

    “Oh my god,” Xephos breathed out slowly. “Will? Are… are you okay?” His voice was so much more tender this time. “Christ, I haven’t seen you in years, what the fuck  _ happened  _ to you?”

    Strife only nodded, then made a motion as if he was going to hurl again, and Xephos scrambled back. 

    “Jesus, okay, I can’t bring you inside right now, I’m sorry, but here, come here,” Xephos told him. He grabbed firmly onto Strife’s arm, standing slowly. The poor man stood shakily with him, letting Xeph support most of his weight. They limped over to the step in front of Xeph’s shop, and something in the back of his mind compared this to the countless times he’d helped along a wounded comrade. He pushed the thoughts out of his head. This man -- Strife -- wasn’t a warrior, wasn’t a soldier. It looked a lot like he’d gotten on the wrong side of something he shouldn’t have gotten into in the first place.

    Settling the both of them carefully down on the step, Xephos released Strife’s arm. The man was still shaking violently, his eyes focused on some point in the distance.

    “It’s all right, you’re gonna be okay.” Xephos patted the poor fellow on the back in what he hoped was a comforting manner. This turned out to be a fairly bad decision. Strife shuddered again, groaned, and his jaw dropped open. He heaved, and Xephos flinched back, scooting across to the other side of the step. Strife hunched over and vomited again, draining what little was left in his stomach and absolutely ruining the front of his own sweatshirt.

    “Oh, god,” Will muttered hoarsely. “Oh, god.”

    “You’re okay, everything’s okay.” Xephos braced himself, leaned over, and grabbed the bottom hem of Strife’s sweatshirt, tugging it upwards. 

///

    Obligingly, but with some difficulty, Will raised his arms and allowed the shopkeeper to strip the shirt off of him. He sniffed a few times, then coughed, clearing junk from his throat. He was vaguely aware that his nose was bleeding. That was the only part of this that was a normal occurrence for him. He should have known not to mess with other peoples’ “turf.”

    “Yeah, I’m okay,” Strife whispered again. His throat was killing him.  _ They _ were going to kill him, he realized. They wanted to grind his face into the ground. “Oh, god,” he repeated. He probably had something broken, a rib maybe, everything hurt like hell. “They were going to kill me.” He heaved another breath, carefully. If his rib really was broken, he could puncture a lung, and there was no way in hell he could afford the hospital bill for that. Having a broken bone was no big deal, he could just sort of strap a board to it as a makeshift splint.

    It really was pretty nice of this guy to take care of him like this. Strife looked down, thankful as well that he was wearing his usual outfit underneath, though it was a bit dirty.

    “Why on earth are you wearing that?” the man questioned him quietly. 

    The corners of Strife’s mouth twitched down, his brows furrowing. He didn’t think it was that bad, granted, it was rumpled. He wore what had once been a red dress shirt, rolled up to his elbows. To hide a stain, he’d thrown a dark vest -- he was pretty sure it used to be black -- on top of it. The tie he’d gotten from a bin.

    “I dunno, just, well, makes me feel confident,” he shrugged, looking down at himself. “I look… decent.”

    “Never said you didn’t, it’s just that it’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”

    “I dunno,” Strife muttered, dropping his shoulders and hunching over. He was tired, too tired.

    The man just smiled warmly at him. “I haven’t seen you in years, what happened to you?” he asked gently.

    Strife looked back up at him, frowning. “Say what? You know me?”

    “From high school, remember? We were… you know, friends.” His voice had a note of worry to it.

    “From… uh…” Though he tried to rack his brain for the memory, the pain and the last of the bad batch he’d gotten were thundering through his system, snatching away anything coherent he tried to latch onto.

///

    “Xephos, it’s Xeph, remember? We were chemistry partners? And… and, uh...” If Strife didn’t remember him… Xephos frowned right back at Strife, mimicking the furrow in his brow. 

    Will’s face lit up, not quite a smile, but his eyes opened wide in surprise, which seemed painful, considering how bloodshot they were. “Shit, Xeph! I didn’t even recognize you!” he rasped. “Didn’t you go off with the pigs?”

    “The… Oh, ha! No, not the cops,” Xephos laughed. “Military. The goddamned army is what gave me this,” he declared, thumping his prosthetic leg on the sidewalk. “They’ll only accept you if you’re in perfect health, then they break you and fuckin’ send you home.”

    “Seems like you’ve, uh, got a decent thing here,” Strife commented, then coughed violently, shaking and rocking. Xephos reached over, his hands hovering slightly around the man, preparing to catch him if he toppled again. But Strife managed to stay mostly upright, and after a few more minutes of sitting in silence, Xephos huffed, watching his breath puff out into the cold air like smoke. 

    “So, d’you want to come inside?” Xephos asked, tentatively. They may have once known each other, but that was no guarantee of the man’s current moral standings.

    Will only stared off into the distance, which in this case wasn’t very  _ much _ of a distance, only across the road at the other block of dingy buildings.

    “Strife? Hello? You okay?” Xeph asked, quietly. 

    There was still no response. Strife’s eyes dropped to the ground, and his hand wandered to his pocket, or where his pocket would have been had he still been wearing his jacket. “Shit,” he muttered. “Where’s my…”

    Xephos gingerly picked up Strife’s jacket and handed it to him. Strife grabbed at it, seemingly not caring that it was still covered in vomit. Xephos  _ thanked God, thanked anything that was out there _ that Strife somehow managed to avoid hitting the main bits of barf as he turned it over and scrambled to find the pocket. Will reached inside one pocket, then the other, and as his hand wrapped around something solid, he seemed to breathe more easily. He drew out a box of something unmistakeable.

    “You’re not fucking smoking right after you’ve thrown up, are you? Oh, Christ.”

    Strife ignored him, sliding open the lid of the small box and selecting a long, thin tube. He cast around again, over his jacket pockets, then his pants pockets, until he found another small item -- a lighter. The bright red container was cracked, the lid popped off, and Xephos noticed for the first time that a tiny pool of darkness had collected over Strife’s pant pocket where the lighter had obviously leaked.

    The man stuck the cigarette in-between his teeth and sighed, then brought the lighter up to his mouth.

    Xephos barely had time to consciously realize what was happening before he’d whipped his hand up and slapped the lighter out of Will’s hand.

    Strife finally turned to him, his eyes focusing on the taller man. Xephos hoped Strife had finally collected his thoughts, but when Strife opened his mouth to speak, the only thing that came out was a long string of profanity.

    “What the actual fuck, Xeph? Listen, you can save me all you like but don’t fucking bullshit me. If you don’t like me fucking smoking you can take your bullshit opinions and shove them up your asshole,  _ okay? _ Don’t pull a fucking dick move like that.”

    Xephos gaped at him. “ _ You -- _ you absolute moron, you _ idiot _ hole, I don’t fucking care that you’re smoking, what I care about is that  _ you were about to light yourself on fucking fire. _ Your lighter was leaking, for Chrissake!”

    There was another moment of silence, and Will opened his mouth again as if to speak, then shut it again. He stared down at the lighter on the ground.

    “God fucking dammit,” he swore quietly. “They broke my fucking lighter. Shit!” He was honestly only swearing for the heck of it at this point. It felt better to swear, felt like he could shout at the whole fucking world.

    “I’ll make you tea,” Xephos told him. It wasn’t a question, more of a demand. “Come inside and I’ll put on a pot.” 

    He grabbed Strife’s arm, delicately picked up Strife’s coat in the other hand, and they went through the painstaking process of getting the shaky man off the floor. Xeph’s mind jumped to another comparison: the blind leading the blind, he thought, but in this case it’s a cripple leading a guy who can’t walk straight. Great.

    Leading the poor man inside, Xeph guided him through the main floor of the store and over to the stairs. “Are -- are you going to be okay with going up to my apartment?”

    “Your apartment?” Strife asked, shakily, and Xephos could see the distant haze butting over his eyes again.

    Xephos chuckled. “Yeah, I live above the store. Kind of have to, seeing as I’m basically the only one running it.”

    Again, he only got a vague mumble in response.

    “Just one step at a time,” Xephos mumbled reassuringly. Strife only glanced up at him a moment before returning his gaze to the staircase. For every step up, Xephos moved up first, ensuring his prosthetic was fully balanced on the stair, then reached down to drag the violently shaking Will up to his level. “One step at a time.”


End file.
